


Tales from the Bahamut Cycle

by retrowavesasquatch



Series: The Bahamut Cycle [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Drunk Sex, F/M, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Character, Lactation, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oviposition, Referenced Animal Abuse, Referenced Non-Con - Freeform, Rough Sex, Tail Sex, Tentacles, Threesome - F/M/M, Trans Male Character, Violence, Voyeurism, questionable use of suggestion, rosebudding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-09-17 15:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16977000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrowavesasquatch/pseuds/retrowavesasquatch
Summary: Quick and dirty tales from the continuous canon of several campaigns set in the Forgotten Realms.





	1. The Missing Night

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Keyleth and Cadiz belong to their respective players, and used in this story with their permission.

“And sold, to the gentlewoman.” The drow clasped her hands together and bent to speak excitedly to her companion, a halfling woman in fine leathers. She’d outbid Jas. on a particularly rare spell component, which so happened to be in high demand as of late. The drow, a Lady A’ Daravar, had made her fortune as a perfumer, and the latest scent touted this ingredient: Displacer beast bile.

This ingredient also made casting blink less taxing, and more difficult for the inhabitants of the Ethereal Plane to notice the visitor.

Still, the evening wasn’t a total loss. He’d overheard a conversation about the diamond market tanking very suddenly. “...says some adventurers waltzed in, and ‘is apprentice bought the entire lot for fucking millions.” If that were true, and some new money just arrived, the nobility would begin circling them like wolves waiting to tear the yearling apart.

“I heard his wife’s pulling her family’s support until he recoups the loss.”

Poor bastard. Jas. made a mental note to visit the jeweler soon. A few cheap diamonds could speed up some of his research on more efficient methods of casting chromatic orb.

As the auction shifted focus to living components, Jas. considered calling it a night. His wallet was still reasonably heavy, but his vault was beginning to be stretched thin. A life in hiding was more expensive than he’d thought. Certainly he could walk over to a shop or a tavern with a hiring sign, but why lower himself to a life of servicing the dregs of Waterdeep? Not to mention, he often told himself, the chances of being recognized for what he was increased ten fold. The thought made him tug at the glove concealing the brand scar out of habit.

Pocketing his receipts, Jas. prepared to leave. It was still early enough he might be able to make it over to the Yawning Portal before Durnan calls for last rounds. As he shouldered his way through the crowd, the door opened, letting in the chilly near autumn wind. It bit through his threadbare coat and slipped through the holes in his sleeves. Accompanying the wind were two people, elves most like, given their sharp features. For a moment the two looked utterly lost, the he-elf leaning heavily on his female companion. It seemed the red cheeks were not fully the responsibility of the cold.

Jas. saw the unsteadiness in their posture, and could smell the sloshed ale on their clothes. Curious, he stepped back into the crowd. His fingers found the smooth handle of his wand, tucked away within a hidden pocket. The chance of these two being Robes looking to bust this operation was slim, but one could never be too cautious.

The next batch of items for bid were carted up to the block. Jas. raised his hand once or twice, only to be outbid swiftly. There wasn’t much he was truly interested in, until the bidding began on a large brick colored egg. A wyvern egg. The components he could harvest from such a creature would be greatly beneficial.

He stepped forward, closer to the couple. It’d make his hand more visible in the crowd, and enabled him to get a better look at them. They were heavily armed, which was uncommon. So clearly they’d not been in Waterdeep long. The brief snippets of words he could catch confirmed his assumption, as their accents were not Waterdhavian, or anything he recognized from this region of the Sword Coast.

Bidding quickly surpassed his allotment for the half-elf had taken an interest as well. His hand, as well as the hand of his companion shot into the air the moment someone raised the bid.

To this surprise the wyvern egg went for five thousand dragons, a good two thousand more than those beasts were worth. The half-elf seemed proud of himself over the purchase, however.

“Next on the block…” Jas. had tuned out most of the items being listed until one caught his eye.

The egg on display was marginally larger than the last. The auctioneer listed the thing as an albino wyvern egg. Whoever was selling it had no idea what they had. Judging by the shell’s stony appearance, it’d blend in to the sun bleached rock of the desert. It lacked a metallic sheen, from what he could see, which narrowed it down to only one thing. He suspected if one were to peel off the layer of hardened sand, a distinctly blue shell would be exposed.

A hand raised, a second, a third. He watched with mild amusement as the bid sluggishly went up. Even he was tempted to put in an offer. However, the half-elf’s hand shot up to increase the bid to one thousand, five hundred, and he overheard him say to his companion: “...well, they need a little brother or sister...” He couldn’t make out much more over the auctioneer’s voice. If that man wanted something, Jas. doubted he could outbid him.

Five thousand gold won the egg. The same as the true wyvern. Pity, he thought, a dragon would be a suitable guardian for the manor, if one hadn’t taken up residence already.

Whether their gold limit was reached, or they’d simply gotten bored, the two began to bump their way towards the door.

Uncertain of just how inebriated the two were, Jas. played it safe. He could follow them, but at this time of night, that would be easier to notice; drunk or not. Jas. was curious, and could not simply be satisfied seeing the two disappear beyond the door.

So he too called it a night. He picked up his proofs of purchase and exited the auction house. The couple were half a block ahead of him. Quickening his pace, he closed some distance before slipping between a cobbler and a tailor’s shops. He gripped the wand in his coat and muttered the incantation to polymorph himself.

The gaunt, black wolf trotted out from the shadow of the buildings. Jas. favored this form, as he often got confused as a stray dog. A dog following a stranger, hoping for a handout, wouldn’t seem amiss. Still, he kept a safe distance. Not close enough to rouse suspicion or attention, but just enough so that his more sensitive ears could pick up whispered conversation.

“Where’s that bar you bought?” The she-elf asked, her words markedly slurred.

The two stopped as the half-elf fumbled in his pockets, withdrawing several sheets of parchment. He shuffles through them, holding them close to his face. Jas. sits on his haunches to scratch an illusory flea while he waited for him to figure out their destination. A bar purchase, along with the two won auctions piqued his interest. He suspected this man might be the one responsible for the uproar in the jeweler community.

A dog jumping up on a person wouldn’t seem out of place. Just an overly friendly mutt, used to hand outs. However, that came with the risk of being cuffed on the head, or kicked.  A human was harder to raise a fist to with the Watch making rounds. So the dog trotted past the two and turned right.

He gave a few test sways to get his feet placement right. Jas. knew how to pretend to be drunk. The bottles in the parlor were evidence of years of practice. Waiting, he listened for their footsteps approaching before stumbling out from the street corner. His shoulder struck the half-elf, and he pretended to lose his balance, falling into him so his hand found the pocket those papers were stuffed in. A flick of the wrist sends them fluttering in the air.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, good Saer.” He said with a wobbly bow once he recovered his balance. Bending down, he is quick to recover the parchment sheets before the wind takes them. A quick glance reveals three deeds, and a bill of sale from Halazar’s. With a lopsided smile, he offered them back to the fellow. “The Dock Ward? Interesting place to own a tavern, but in the right hands, it’s sure to be lucrative.”

“Do you know where the Dock Ward is?”

“Of course. I may be shit faced, but I’ve lived in this city a good portion of my life. Last ride has long passed, so I’m afraid I’d have to escort you on foot. A carriage called this late will rob you blind.” And he’d hate for someone to get to that purse before he had the chance. With those extravagant purchases, he may finally be rid of the last of his family’s prized possessions.

 

With autumn fast approaching, the air was brisk at this time of night. It bit through Jas.’s overcoat and the chill settled firmly in his chest. He tucked his hands into his pockets as he led the two down the winding streets. The occasionally lagged behind, stopping to take in sights; or in the case of Keyleth, vomit into someone’s window planter.

They talked idly, boasted of their adventures at sea, and asked questions. Mundane questions worthy of one or two word answers: What he did; where he was from; what the Lurkwood was like; what transmutation is, and the like. As they reached the docks, and walked along the thick, weathered planks, one ship caught their interest. Just as he’d hoped it would. The ship’s figurehead, a golden griffin frozen in flight, rocked lazily in the water. “Oh, that? It’s an airship.”

“Whoa, whoa… hold on a minute,” Keyleth gripped his shoulder and nearly toppled him as she listed to one side. “Did you just say _airship_? As in a ship that goes in the air?"

“Yes. That happens to be the definition of an airship.”

“Cadiz, we have to get one!”

“Shakey did say we should buy a ship,” the half-elf said with a broad grin, “he didn’t specify what kind of ship.”

Perfect, Jas. thought. The Weathercock had been anchored in the harbor since his sister’s honeymoon about a decade back. “Well, my new friends, this one so happens to be for sale. I don’t find myself traveling like I used to, and I’d hate to see her go to waste.”

It didn’t take much to get Cadiz to agree on the price of twenty-five thousand dragons, a good ten thousand more than the vessel was worth in its current state. He drew up the bill of sale on a napkin Keyleth found crumbled in her belt pouch.

“Excellent. We got a house, a bar, and a ship. You think we need anything else?” Cadiz looked at his companion.

Keyleth shrugged. “Lets ask the party in the morning. I can’t think straight right now, not with the streets moving like this.”

“Then I suggest we head to our destination. Perhaps there you can safely rest until your head stops spinning.” Jas. said, extending an arm towards Cod Lane.

 

The building was sandwiched between two cobblestone buildings. Its roof sagged with damp, and most of the second story windows were broken. Only one pane was fully intact, protected by a gull’s nest built on the sill. He watched Cadiz fumble with the key, missing the lock several times in his drunken state.

Inside, it stank of mildew and years of spilled alcohol absorbed into the floorboards. Cobwebs decorated the support beams and corners, while dust coated nearly every surface. He closed the door behind him as Keyleth wandered to the bar, testing the taps. One spigot dripped a thick sludge, and she gagged at the odor that soon permeated the entire room. “I guess,” she paused a put her fist to her mouth to quell another wave of nausea. “...the toast will have to wait.”

Shame, he thought, the night might end far sooner than he anticipated. Questions asked would be remembered, and he didn’t want that. As he contemplated slipped out of the door, leaving them to their decrepit purchases, a full pouch on Keyleth’s belt caught his eye. “Do you have anything in that waterskin?” He asked, nodding to Keyleth’s hip.

She pulled it free and gave it a shake. “Uh huh,” she confirmed, and handed it over when he held out his hand.

“I’m afraid my specialty is whiskey,” he explained as he transmuted the water. He brought the waterskin to his lips and feigned a deep swig. “It’s no Marvaro’s but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Cadiz took the waterskin when Jas. passed it to him. He toasted the new purchases, and dedicated the future success of the tavern to his god, Perun.

The waterskin passed between them until Keyleth squeezed the last dregs into her mouth. She offered up Cadiz’s waterskin, still more than half full, for transmutation. “Can you turn it into wine? Something classy.”

“If you wish.”

“Shit yeah, I definitely wish.”

Wine was something he never had much luck replicating. He didn’t like the stuff to begin with, it all tasted like sucking week old grape juice from someone’s foot. Previous attempts at transmuting a palatable wine resulted in an overly sweet grape juice with enough alcohol to strip paint. He doubted the two would care what it tasted like.

It took all his resolve to hold the waterskin close to his face. The smell turned his stomach, so he held his breath as he feigned a drink before passing it over to Keyleth, who’d made the request. It gave her no pause, but Cadiz, in his enthusiasm, coughed violently after a swallow. “Perun’s shining balls, man. What is this?”

“Wine.”

“Fuck me. I bet parties are something else at your place.” 

They weren’t, but he smiled nonetheless. “Well, if you’d like a taste, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

After finishing the last of the wine, Keyleth belched, “you mean oblige with your dick, right? Because if you mean your dick, I’m down... Ready for round two, Cadiz?”

There was a beat before Cadiz responded, “you know it.” A beat long enough for Jas. to noticed.

For a moment he hesitated as a treacherous thought began to develop in the far reaches of his mind. Keyleth was more than willing, drunk, but willing. She seemed an old hand at this. However, her companion appeared somewhat reluctant in some regards. That flush wasn’t solely the result of the alcohol. He’d initially pegged Cadiz for a choir boy, and just now realized how spot on his assessment may have been.

Jas. glanced into the mostly full waterskin. The dark, almost black wine sloshed and brought the fumes up to sting his eyes. He mimed a sip, and softly muttered a few words into the liquid. Just a little something to loosen the tension. To make him more willing. Certainly, he thought, he would be too drunk to remember much, but Jas. wanted no chances of that. “To tonight,” he said, offering the skin to Cadiz. “For courage and luck in your future ventures.”

Clothing, armor, and weapons were cast aside. Jas. only stopped to contemplate whether he should remove the glove over his branded hand or not. In the end it was cast onto the pile of clothing he’d arranged on the bar top. They wouldn’t barely remember his face, let alone a small detail on his hand. A hand that he didn’t intend on using, as he conjured a twinkling arcane mage hand. When he turned the face the two of them, Cadiz was standing a few paces away with his hands clasped over his cock.

Keyleth’s brows rose as he directed the hand ahead of him, “and what is that for?”

“Let me show you.”

Any initial hesitation the half-elf seemed to have was out of his system by the time Keyleth suggested Jas. switch places with her. He gave her hair an experimental tug; just hard enough so as she didn’t miss the intent. When the back of her head didn’t connect with his nose, he wound her hair around his hand like a set of reins.

The new position brought to light Cadiz’s inexperience, and perhaps discomfort with an unfamiliar partner. As much as he enjoyed being sandwiched between them, Jas. pried himself from their entanglement. He assured Keyleth that watching was far more pleasurable. “Oh don’t you worry. It’ll be like I’m right there with you.” He said, dismissing the mage hand. “I have a suitable replacement, if you’d like to take up center stage once again.”

 

With them both dead to the world, and the sky outside beginning to lighten, Jas. pulled on his coat. He paused on his way to the door, his boot poised over one of the deeds. Picking it up he saw that Cadiz had bought a rather large plot of land near Daggerford. The town had recently been rebuilt after its destruction at the hands of the Cult of the Dragon. He’d know. He was there for it, under command of General Jethraxion. As a result, homes were not cheap. Seemed the fellow made the right move in buying land to build on, just close enough to the town for convenience. It was, however, an inconvenient journey to and from Waterdeep. A teleportation circle would be a reasonable option, and it bypassed registering at the gates.

Summoning a small bit of parchment he knew he’d left on his desk, beneath a coffee mug, Jas. wrote a brief letter. A reminder of the alcohol blurred evening. He feigned being hazy, himself, despite knowing that half-elf’s name and where he was staying. A curious place, that villa, and something he must look into later. He added a postscript to contact him for any additional services he may require of a wizard, and folded it neatly into Cadiz’s pocket. As an afterthought, he placed two tins of healing salve next to his prone figure. They’d certainly need it.

He walked out into the brisk morning air, leaving the two draped where he’d left them. It was still too early for the fisherfolk to take their spots on the dock. The journey to the old manor will have to be delayed once more, he thought. Gold was to be had, and renovations would be costly. Jas. pulled the overcoat around himself, flexed his fingers, and the raven flew northeast.


	2. Shocking Grasp

Veka closed the tent flap and tied it off as the wind fought to wrest it from their grasp. Rain battered the canvas, drowning out the outside world. It’d been just over a fortnight since they joined up with these mercenaries. The tall firbolg and tiefling were sharing a tent opposite their’s.  
  
Their nose flushed purple thinking of the firbolg’s long fingered hands and the tiefling’s strong forearms. Veka wondered what they did in the privacy of their tent; what Victory did with that tail of her's. They’d watched them train that evening, and when Blacksmith removed his tunic, Veka found they needed to seek distraction elsewhere. A book in their lap could only do so much. The words began to run together and ceased to be meaningful when their thoughts kept returning to Blacksmith's broad shoulders.  
  
Victory had offered them a chance to spar early in their mission. When they declined, she’d smiled and clapped them on the back, “no worries, my blue nosed friend. Swordplay isn’t for everyone.” The way she smiled, Veka wondered if perhaps they missed something.  
  
Glancing at the closed tent flap, Veka unlaced their padded jacket after a moment’s hesitation, half expecting the barrier they’d drawn around the camp to suddenly ring out. They wriggled free of their trousers and removed their tunic, then pulled the jacket back over their shoulders to ward off the chill.  
  
Their clit was already straining against their inner folds. They reached down, spreading their wetness over the length of it before teasing the sensitive head. Their nose was a rich violet as they thought of the two dragon slayers on either side of them. Victory’s strong arms, and whip-like tail coiling around them; Blacksmith’s furry bulk practically smothering them. Veka wanted nothing more than to be pressed against the bedroll with a cock buried to the hilt in them.  
  
As they stroked themselves, Veka reached up and gripped their breast. They were sore, and a little swollen. Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to induce lactation days before their mission, but they'd expected it to have dried up by now. A night of fun experimentation wasn't worth the daily discomfort out in the desert. They squeezed a nipple until a bead of pearly milk formed, then dribble sluggishly down the swell of their breast. It was slower to come out now. They hoped the soreness would cease by the time they reach the dragon’s lair.  
  
Still, the sensation had been wonderful. Their nipples were still overly sensitive, and they imagined Victory’s fingers milking them, Blacksmith’s hands on their hips. Veka bit the collar of their jacket to muffle themselves. Despite the heavy rain, they feared the vigilant slayers could hear everything. Their eyes went back and forth from the tent flap to their erect clit, and nipples.  
  
The thick fabric muted their groan as they came. Veka’s nostrils flared as they exhaled sharply, stroking their clit until the dull throbs faded. As they caught their breath, Veka conjured a dull flame in their palm to dry the wetness that had splattered across the bedroll. Lacing their jacket, and pulling their trousers on, they then constructed a thin barrier of force over their head. Outside the rain fell in sheets as the wind battered them, soaking through the legs of their trousers where the barrier didn't protect. A quick glance at Blacksmith and Victory’s tent showed no signs of wakefulness.  
  
Once clean, and relieved, they checked the wards around the camp perimeter. Nothing that meant them ill could cross the circle without triggering an alarm, and an electric jolt.  Not that that would matter if the dragon they sought decided to cross them, but lesser creatures would certainly think twice. Victory had been confident that the dragon wouldn’t bother them. “Blues are pompous bags of air, Veka. We’re nothing more than ants crawling on a countertop to it. So don’t you fret. We can get to the cabinets before it’ll actually take notice.”  
  
Shivering, Veka hunkered back down in their tent. They glanced at the slayers’ tent once more before closing the flap and securing it.


	3. Old Flame

She recognized the voice before she’d seen him; that musical, raspy cadence which carried over the din of the patrons. The years hadn't affected his beauty. Kohl gathered in the lines at the corners of his eyes, and shocks of white salted his inky black hair. An unlit cigarillo hung from his lips, bobbing as he spoke to the barkeep. She still remembered how those lips felt on her nipples and her member. How warm his tongue had been when it delved into her opening.   
  
The memory brought a rush of heat to her cheeks and burned her ears. For once she was glad to be in uniform, for the armor would hide any indication of arousal. It made her feel as she did all those years ago; a fumbling girl, barely a woman, and unsure of herself. She'd been bowled over and disarmed by his glittering smile and clever tongue.   
  
Griselda shook off the trepidation. She wasn't some green agent fresh out of training. She'd slain dragons, battled giants. So why were her palms sweating?  
  
  
It'd taken less than she'd expected to convince him to come to her room: A shy smile, a fumbled greeting, and less than subtle invitation. He remembered her, thank Maglubiyet, and gave her that same disarming smile. His eyes, however, were different; less hunted, but there was a sadness there that hadn't been present before. When the door shut behind them, he apologized for leaving without explanation or a goodbye. “A lot has changed since,” he said with a light chuckle.  
   
Slender fingers found all the buckles and straps of her armor after the pleasantries ran dry. She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, trapping his arms in the fabric, and exposing the gold rings she remembered. One claw hooked the glittering loop and gave a tug. The way his knees quivered fifteen years ago had kept her company on lonely nights, and now to see it again made her member throb.  
  
Stepping back, her calves knocked against the chaise and she pulled him on to her lap. His long hair spilled over one shoulder, exposing the deep muddy green scales. She'd damn near embarrassed herself their first night together. She'd assumed he would be slimy to the touch and had marveled at their smoothness. They were nearly imperceptible from his skin texture. She reached up and stroked them now, watching him lean into the touch.   
  
Corvid casually mentioned that he hadn't expected hooking up with anyone tonight, since he was meeting his partner in a few days. A partner was new, and gave her pause. “Are they aware of,” she gestured vaguely between them, “this?”  
  
“He’s aware I enjoy the company of others, darling. We wouldn’t’ve lasted this long if it bothered him.”  
  
“Oh,” was all she could muster. It sat heavy in her gut that she might just be a fun one night stand. The illusion of sweeping the yuan-ti off his feet and waking up beside him for mornings to come began to dissipate.   
  
A finger wound in a lock of her beard, and he lifted her chin. She initially hesitated to meet his eyes, but when she did, she saw genuine sincerity when he said: “I hope we can continue this, if you don’t mind my involvement with another. For you certainly made an unforgettable impression on me, Ruul.”  
  
The fact he remembered her true name pulled tight at her chest. Griselda cleared her throat and smiled. “If he’s alright with it, then so am I.” The yuan-ti could likely see through her feigned confidence, right through to the nervous 18 year old she'd been a decade and some change back. If he did, he didn't say anything.   
  
She conjured a spectral hand. Her claws hadn’t been filed in over a month, and she wasn’t about to shove those up his ass or dip into his cunt. So with some arcane assistance, she opened him up. Those faint magical fingers prying him apart until it could side itself in past the wrist. He was quicker to warm up than before, more pliant.   
  
He sank onto her member after the fist pulled free. Griselda marveled at his lovely face, the darkening of his sharp cheekbones, how his full lips parted and revealed a hint of ivory and gold teeth. Her claws gripped his hips to add some emphasis to his downward thrusts.   
  
The hand began to waiver as her thoughts went to the raspy huffs of a moan that escaped him. It flickered, catching her attention, and she saw the floor length dressing mirror in the corner. She directed the hand to pull the mirror across the floor, for it was too heavy to lift, and settled it in front of them. The hand vanished with it’s task complete, and Griselda marveled at the enticing view of Corvid’s slender figure over his shoulder. He glanced back, then regarded her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t negative, at least. Inquisitive, maybe?   
  
He pulled his hair over one shoulder, exposing the line of scales that ran down his spine. The way the lamp light caught them made the muddy colors shine like tarnished coins.   
  
  
His reflection shuddered with his breath. She loved how his toes curled as he was brought over the edge. Her fur was damp from the cum that’d oozed onto her lap. The din from downstairs was drowned out by her heart beating in her ears. The scent of burning tar and cigarillo smoke mingled with her sweat damp fur and rose water. She’d missed his strange odor, and buried her nose in the hair gathered over one shoulder.   
  
She’d been embarrassed asking him, and her cheeks burned when she had to explain what she meant by “duds”. Corvid pushed the sweaty strands of hair stuck to his temple as he listened to her stumble over how bugbears laid eggs. His brows rose and he asked if sex was common among her species.   
  
“Well yeah, we’ve gone extinct ages ago if all we did was jerk it over spawning cradles.”  
  
He chuckled, “fair point.”  
  
To her relief, he not only agreed, but seemed downright enthusiastic about the prospect.   
  
  
The handful of eggs slowly released into his passage. They'd double in size, she’d warned him beforehand, and explained that they’d absorb the fluid expelled along with them. Corvid had smiled at her and said: "I like a challenge, darling."  
  
After she’d spent herself, she held her fingers against his hole to keep the undeveloped eggs from spilling out too early.   
  
When he gasped against her collar, she knew they’d started. He squirmed in her lap as his passage was filled and stretched. Soon she was able to pull her fingers away, for they’d grown large enough to not immediately fall free. At least not without some effort on his part.   
  
“I want you to see,” she murmured, nuzzling his cheek.   
  
Corvid was still just as light, if not lighter than he had been those years before. He readjusted with a low groan as the eggs shifted within. His back rested against her chest and his head leaned towards her chin. Griselda hooked her long arms under his knees and pulled them up, which coaxed a hiss of discomfort as pressure was put on his lower belly.   
  
She could see the sweat at his hairline, and feel dampness against her arms where his knees were draped. The sight of his hole stretched around the jellied surface, and how it gaped afterward settled hot in her lower belly.   
  
Griselda’s member twitched and bobbed when the next to last egg fell to the floor with a squelch. The final egg was further up his passage, and he bloomed from the effort. His legs were trembling from the ordeal. The egg had crowned, pressing him outward before Griselda angled one arm so that she could push it back inside him.   
  
She lifted him easily and laid him back on the chaise. His legs draped over her shoulders as she bent forward and ran her tongue over his folds. He tasted just as strong as before: smokey, acrid, and a bit sour. She doubted the pungentness of it was solely from his diet and lax views on hygiene. That acrid flavor that coated her tongue and left the tip tingling must be something common to all, or at least most serpentfolk. Careful of her tusks, she brought his small cock between her lips.   
  
Corvid pushed, and she dipped her tongue into his cunt, feeling the passage tighten as the egg stretched him. She stroked herself with one hand, while reaching around his thigh with the other. Teasing his cock with her thumb, Griselda laved the clear fluid that tricked from his taut opening.   
  
He came with a sudden rush, as the egg finally came free. Griselda sputtered and snorted as it sprayed her in the face. After she’d wiped her eyes, she glanced up to see his cheeks dark with embarrassment. A look a genuine embarrassment. She couldn’t hold back the giggle that bubbled out as she wiped her beard. His own laugh rasped out soon after, and she bent down to kiss him. He’d avoided her lips before, but now met them. She could feel his smile against her own, and pulled him upright, back into her lap.     
  
With them both sweaty, and cum stiffening in fur and hair, she was able to convince him into a shared bath. Corvid'd lids were heavy before the tub was filled, and he dozed against her when they'd squeezed into the basin together.  She looked at him resting against her shoulder, his slender body carefully slotted against her bulk. She found that she didn't mind sharing with this partner of his.


	4. Polymorph

If it weren’t for the yellow, flickering light of a lamp from the sixth floor windows, Blacksmith would’ve thought the manor abandoned. The Lurkwood was in the process of reclaiming the grounds, and a large portion of the servants’ quarters. The eastern wing’s roof sagged like an overworked nag’s.  
  
Unease settled in his chest long before the night began. It started when the door swung open with no one to greet him. It took root when he crossed the once grand entryway, now left to ruin. Only the stairs showed any signs of life, for they were swept clean of dust and debris. The firbolg was used to human homes being human sized. He was used to ducking through low doorways. This place made him feel small. It always had.  
  
The strong stink of dragon had permeated everything. Before the Second Rage, Jas. had been able to keep it at bay. It’d only been noticeable the closer you got to the great hall, where the old red bastard kept his treasure. Now, however, Jas. only focused on the arcane, as he could manipulate little else in his undead state.  
  
As he ascended the stairs, movement caught his eye. The small figure of a goblin darted across the darkened hall, followed by three more. The last time he’d visited, Shiv’s granddaughter had renovated the third floor music room into a small apartment complex. Their numbers had exploded since the Rage, in an attempt to recoup the massive losses sustained after Oldenar the Golden battled Zavrenstrasz. The two Rage afflicted dragons had decimated the old carriage house and stables; with the family’s old hunting grounds suffering a significant loss when the brush caught fire.  
  
He suspected the goblins not only did Zavrenstrasz’s bidding. Jas. still had awareness of his surroundings; still meddled in affairs when boredom struck. Twice now, Blacksmith had to dissuade would be heroes and exorcists from taking the northern passage. Most were unaware of the ghostly wizard’s lover, and he did not want that resting on his shoulders, for they were burdened enough as is.  
  
Ignoring the soft foot falls following him, Blacksmith made his way to the western wing. The goblins lost interest quickly, as he was unarmed and carried no coin. There was likely an entire generation who had no knowledge of him and his ties with this decrepit place. Those who’d witnessed the first battle at the manor were long dead.  
  
Now he stood before those familiar doors that stretched high above him. The relief carvings had been restored at the dragon’s request, and Jas.’s chagrin. The man had wanted all memory of his family erased, but Zavrenstrasz was a historian at heart. Restoration was his passion. Blacksmith knocked beside one of the figures of Graz’zt that graced the carved ebony wood.  
  
The door swung open in a fluid motion, making not a sound. The wealth revealed never failed to awe, even after all these years. Coins and gems carpeted the floor like snow, with drifts piled near large bookcases laden with tomes and scrolls. Ornate, magic imbued armaments were displayed alongside ceremonial armor, and art, dotting the walls or displayed on stands. However, Zavrenstrasz’s prized possession were the stained glass windows. He’d spent years restoring the panes to their former glory, and now employed the goblins in the eastern wing to keep them clean.  
  
The old dragon rose from his bed of gold. Coins dripped from his scales like raindrops as he stretched like a great cat. Stepping forward, his form shrank and condensed into that of a tall human man. “Ah, Blacksmith,” he greeted him as an old friend, happy that he’d accepted the invitation. The firbolg had long suspected the dragon was lonely, as invitations became a frequent occurrence after Jas.’s body had been destroyed.  
  
Despite his unease, Blacksmith accepted the offer of tea. He followed the dragon, who walked effortlessly across the sea of coin. He, however, found himself slipping as they shifted beneath his feet. After steadying himself against a bookcase, he tread more cautiously across the slippery surface.  
  
Zavren chatted idly, telling him about the renovations that the goblins were doing in the first floor parlor. “Lop nearly tossed a tome worth more than you could possibly imagine.” He said, waving his hand and summoning a tea kettle. “Lucky for me, Jas. was nearby and stopped the little fellow from tossing it.” His smile was forlorn at the mention of his lover. Lifting the kettle, he exhaled a small gout of white hot flame, until the spout hissed. “Do you care for honey or sugar?”  
  
“Neither.”  
  
They sat across from one another. The chairs were large, plush, and comfortable. Blacksmith relaxed back into the red velvet and enjoyed the warmth of the cup in his hands. The tea was minty, though a bit over steeped, and slow to cool. He listened to the dragon talk, who gave him little chance to respond with more than a grunt of acknowledgement.  
  
As the night stretched on, their conversation shifted to lovers past and loneliness. Blacksmith had to admit he did feel that emptiness, particularly after Lysemius and Victory lost their lives. He’d retreated back to his forge, and did little else. If he lost himself in his craft, it gave his mind little chance to wander.  
  
Zavren’s warm hand came to rest on his arm, and he looked at the dragon sitting across from him. To say he was unattractive would be a lie. His human form was regal in every sense of the word. A pointed beard that mimicked the bony protrusions on his chin was glossy, with ruby and gold glittering in the highlights when the lamp light caught it. His skin was a warm brown, which complemented the fiery eyes that gave away his true form. Though he often preferred keeping his hair tied up in a turban, he now wore it down. It fell over his shoulders in soft black waves that gathered in his lap, as if he’d only moments before brushed the curl out. He knew why Jas. had been enamored with the dragon for reasons other than power.  
  
Still, the memory of the dragon razing his home village burned at the back of his mind. Centuries of hunting them, hating them, had kept him from being anything more than a tolerant neighbor. Blacksmith sighed and looked at Zavren, seeing past what he knew to be a red scaled terror, a monster born of Tiamat’s blood, to the creature who craved company and companionship. “I don’t have any contracts that require immediate attention.” He said, hoping to covey his meaning without having to say it aloud, for he was just as lonely.  
  
Luckily the dragon picked up on his intent. As he suspected he would, having lived nearly a century with the wizard that now haunted the halls. Blacksmith felt anticipation begin knotting in his gut when the dragon flashed him with a smile. He caught a hint of those teeth, and the glint in those ever calculating eyes.  
  
  
Zavren had a private room tailored for human-sized company. This little corner he often shared with Jas., when the wizard occasionally ventured out of his tower. Stray coins littered the rug, having been tracked in from the hoard. Blacksmith ducked through the entryway and found himself in a cozy space. The walls were lined with shelves, laden with Zavren’s favorite books and trinkets. One title caught his eye. The spine was teal with garish pink lettering. He knew it to be part of a long running romance series by Kiri Clovermeadow, having read a few himself.  
  
Dominating the room was a large bed, with only a small sitting area near the hearth, set to one side with a fainting couch and armchair. The table still had an empty coffee mug, stained around the rim where Zavren’s groomed mustache brushed against the gilded mouth. This room likely was left untouched by the goblins he employed. At least he assumed so, by the fine layer of dust on some of the upper shelves.  
  
A polite cough directed his attention back to the dragon, who’d already removed his housecoat. The heavy silk flopped to the floor, and was nudged aside carelessly.  
  
Blacksmith felt his heart quicken at the prospect of what he’d just agreed to. What he’d willingly suggested. Age certainly had mellowed him on his views, he thought with some amusement. His coat and tunic were draped over the back of the armchair, joined shortly by his britches.  
  
He joined Zavren on the bed. The dragon was quick to situate himself between Blacksmith’s thighs once the firbolg had leaned back against the mountainous range of pillows. Zavren’s tongue delved between his folds before pushing the hood back to suck his cock. Blacksmith watched his dark crown bob, and let his knees fall to the side as the tension eased from his body.  
  
When the firbolg began to squirm beneath him, Zavren’s orange eyes met his. He lifted his head, and a thin thread of saliva still connected his lips to Blacksmith’s cock. He asked about his preferences, for he wasn’t in a mood to make decisions.  
  
The firbolg shrugged, “don’t have the means of mounting you with me.” The cock had been left behind in his top drawer, for he hadn’t expected the evening to end with anything more than tea and idle chat until both their jaws were sore. Had he any inkling of what would transpire, he’d’ve packed a few options.  
  
Zavren made up for the lack of toys, fucking his cunt until he was wet enough to be taken up the ass comfortably. The difference in size ceased to matter after the dragon adjusted his angle to prevent his cock from slipping out. He was a surprisingly attentive partner, ensuring Blacksmith was comfortable and that his cock wasn’t ignored. It certainly gave rise to doubt on Blacksmith’s part that dragons were selfish bastards.

  
Afterwards, the two of them sated and cooling down, Zavren’s fingertips found the raised keloid scar across his left breast. “What happened there?”  
  
Jas. had asked that same question long ago. He’d told the story only in detail once, and did not wish to repeat it again. “Tried to fix myself.” Blacksmith frowned down at the mark. It was a reminder of what led him down the path to becoming a cleric of Hiatea. How he’d hated his breasts; so much that he’d stupidly attempted to perform surgery on himself.  
  
“I would apologize, but there is no point beyond establishing polite empathy. You are content as you are now, yes?”  
  
Blacksmith nodded with a grunt, glad that Zavren did not wish to pry and revel in the pain as his lover had.  
  
“I’m certain Ja-“ the dragon sighed and shifted to lie on his back. “I’m certain when he was still living, Jas. offered you his services as transmuter.”  
  
“He did,” and he’d declined. The wizard had offered them as a means of apology after their night together. Blacksmith had acknowledged the apology, but had never forgotten the man had ignored his discomfort with the situation, and made it so he’d been unable to escape it. The crisscrossing scars would never fade across his back without divine intervention, and he was loath to ask Hiatea for anything more than she offered. That cat o’nine had been blessed by Graz’zt to bite deep, and Jas. knew it’s purpose when he took it in hand.  
  
He closed his eyes and let his body sink into the soft mattress. Jas. was long dead; he atoned for his involvement with the Cult, and made no apology for his desires. He was a hedonist at heart, and was unashamed. When Blacksmith cracked an eye as the air cooled, despite the hearth still alight, he saw the spectral outline of a figure near the velvet curtains. Think of the devil and he shall appear, Blacksmith thought with mild annoyance. How long had he watched? If he was still as he had been those decades past, likely from the moment Blacksmith set foot on the grounds.  
  
“Still a voyeur, I see.” Blacksmith grumbled, rolling over so his back was to the ghost. Zavren snorted, and he felt the heat of flame harmlessly lick his chest when the dragon curled against him.


	5. Quid Pro Quo

The sight of spilled blood excited him. The smell of it was thick in the small room, and the candlelight danced across his sword’s hilt. It glimmered within the gold and polished ivory until it danced downward, to die within the cold black void of the blade. “I see you haven’t changed a bit,” Ingo hissed, and spat, spraying red droplets across his face.  
  
Rousseau hesitated. Would killing him solve anything? Certainly it’d make him feel better tonight, but would it continue to do so once the sun had risen?  
  
He felt Swan’s breath against his neck and the heat of his body, so solid at his back. “You have a bargain to keep.”  
  
For a brief moment he saw fear and recognition in the old sorcerer’s eyes as they looked over his shoulder. That fear turned to anger as he addressed the yuan-ti: “Ask him whose bargain you’re upholding, _Eksa_. Levistus’, or Hazirawn’s? Ask him, you puffed up worm.”  
  
The latter name sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he’d heard it. A bone deep chill spread from his spine outward, down his arm like a lover’s caress. Icy, spectral fingers brushed across his skin and reached down the front of his trousers. _End him_. He felt rather than heard the command, and ran Ingo through. The tip of the sword pierced through the back of his throat, and the man grasped the blade as he choked.  
  
Rousseau’s breath came out in wispy white puffs as the cold surrounded him. The hilt of his blade burned as ice crystals sealed his hand to the pommel. He withdrew the blade and let the sorcerer fall. The room was pleasantly warm once more.  
  
This didn’t feel as good as he’d dreamed. He found he felt… guilt? Perhaps, or something adjacent to it. Still, he’d done as his Patron demanded. As Swan reminded. He glanced up to the half elf, and the dim light cast harsh shadows across his angular face. He looked so beautiful.

Commissioned art by [Ikkanrana](https://twitter.com/ikkanrana)


	6. Disintegrate

Spell components were more expensive than he remembered. Then again, he once had a fortune in inheritance and rarely thought of the cost of an item. Now, he was forced to actively consider whether he truly wanted to eat in the morn. He’d passed the market earlier, and hurried past the odors of freshly baked bread that made his stomach ache with want.  
  
Still, the experiment wouldn’t wait. His belly could, and had. Some materials had a short life, and once bought needed to be used within hours. Jas. pushed the gold dragons across the counter, watching what would’ve been enough to stock the larder for several days be raked away by the old woman’s ragged claws. Her blue stained, copper maw split into a smile. “Pleasure doing business with you again, my boy.”  
  
The lack of formality grated on him somewhat, but he knew what he looked like. A shell of a man, in threadbare clothes that stank of herbal components; certainly not the type of man who garnered a “goodsaer” or “lord” from the common folk and merchants. So he gave a polite nod and wished her well before he left, paper bundle in hand.  
  
  
Waterdeep was in the midst of winter, so the streets were relatively empty. People hurrying to the nearest tavern, or the guards who drew the short straw for foot patrol were the only signs of life. While he had the silver to cover the cost of a cross city fare, Jas. chose to walk. That silver could be better used for a hot meal after his work was done.  
  
The biting wind found every thin patch in his cloak, every hole. It ate through his boots and numbed his toes. Jas. cursed his family for purchasing a villa at the northern end of the sea ward.  
  
After he watched a dray roll past, filled with people protected from the wind and cold, he ducked down an alley. Setting the package carefully on a crate, he polymorphed himself into a black wolf. The component was too delicate to risk hiding in a pocket during the transformation. He’d have to carry it separate.  
  
The cold ceased to chill his bones as fur sprouted from his body. Waterdeep instantly sprung to life with greater clarity and a myriad of odors. Jas. knew this form was lean enough to be mistaken for a stray dog. No wolf would dare trot the streets of the city, but a rat catcher or familiar might. So he took the package by the twine, and went on his way.  
  
The dog was largely ignored. Most stepped away, or ducked into doorways to avoid him. A dog in winter, with his guts stuck to his ribs couldn’t be trusted. His sensitive ears picked up snippets of conversations as he passed shops, and taverns: Idle gossip, flirtation, rejection, how the children fared. Talk of the Gauntlet’s search for deserters and traitors caused him pause. The dog stopped to scratch beneath the window of the Bloated Dragon.  
  
“Aye, and the paladin what helped defeat that devil is leading them. Got the whole order backing the hunt.”  
  
Another voice laughed, “those zealots sure get the job done, eh?”  
  
The dog hurried away. Jas. so far had found safety in the city. Here he was just another face in the crowd. However, that news worried him. He’d evaded the Zhentarim for a few years now, but the addition of the Order of the Gauntlet troubled his mind. More eyes on the streets, and unlike the Zhents, the Gauntlet had a holy agenda.  
  
  
Darkness had spread over the city by the time he trotted up the stairs. He kept the servants entrance unlocked, but well warded incase he was followed. Inside, he stood on his hind legs and pushed the door closed. The canine form melted away, and he spat the twine from his mouth.  
  
The grand bedroom that once belonged to his parents served as a study now. Books and scrolls were scattered across any surface flat enough to bear them. Components stored in jars covered the bay window seat, and herbs hung from the bed’s canopy. At the center of the room, an incomplete summoning circle waited. The chalk lines ready for the last mark.  
  
Tying his hair back, Jas. removed his overcoat despite the chill in the room, and rolled up his sleeves. Opening the paper bundle, he carefully removed the delicate glob of lamia fat. With a deep breath, he stepped to the edge of the circle, and drew the final rune with the translucent fat. It clung to his fingers like butter, and once complete, glowed blue as the glyphs activated. Jas. took a step back as the circle seared itself into the floorboards, and that glow brightened to a brilliant white before fading to a deep molten red.  
  
Within the circle motes of light swirled like dust in the morning sun. They converged into a vaguely humanoid shape until the succubus stood whole, and corporeal before him. It’s body was devoid of features, long limbed and winged. As it regained it’s bearings, the plum colored body became that of a dark skinned tiefling. It’s horns, and the corners of it’s mustache dusted with gold powder. It was a picture of wealth, fine breeding, and everything his father had wished him to be. It was everything his sisters had that he lacked. “Why have you summoned me, pretty?”  
  
Jas. snorted, “if you wish to attempt flattery, do it properly. There’s nothing pretty here, Yethrichoiz.”  
  
The succubus flinched at the use of it’s true name, and for a moment the tiefling facade faltered. “Very well, human. What is it that you want?”  
  
“Answers. You are beholden to Graz’zt, are you not?”  
  
“If you mean harm to the Prince-“  
  
“I don’t. Now tell me, what has His servants seen through the idols in the Barlow crypts?”  
  
“Do you really think His eyes will bother with a lowly human sepulcher?”  
  
“I can imprison you in this room for as long as this circle remains, and it will remain until these floorboards rot. Now, I ask again, Yethrichoiz.”  
  
It grimaced. “Very well. If I give you this information, I want something in return.”  
  
“Name your price and I will consider.”  
  
“Energy. From you.”  
  
Jas. feigned contemplation. His thumb stroked the stubble on his cheek as he pretended to ponder the price. He then shrugged. “Very well. Take only as much as you need.”  
  
“We have a deal.” It said with a pointed grin. It shifted it’s weight to draw his eyes down to the erect cock between it’s furred thighs, and the two unblinking eyes above it’s hips.  
  
The succubus’s face then went blank as it spoke, as if by remote means. It describes the empty darkness, tattered banners of the Cult of the Dragon, the great stone sarcophagi of his ancestors, and the statue of his grandfather, cat o’nine tails in hand. Jas. nearly stopped it there, but it continued: “Small creatures scurry about. Not rodents. Kobolds? Yes, the little vermin are here. They deface Him, scratch His eyes and blind us. We see nothing where we once had eyes. Hear nothing where we once had ears.”  
  
Strange, he thought. Though it wasn’t unheard of for kobolds to seek refuge in abandoned crypts. Once his affairs were in order, and he’d have to see about clearing the little beasties out when he moved to the manor. His hope was that the old constructs were still intact.  
  
In keeping with the bargain, Jas. took his dagger and scratched out a few lines of the circle. The flash of arcane energy ruffled his clothing and loosened some strands of hair. As his vision returned, he found himself looking at the taloned feet, and furred legs of his tiefling doppelganger. It’s tri-tipped tail curled on the floor. “Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable, or is the floor suitable?”  
  
As much as he’d like this to be over quickly, Jas. didn’t want his bones pressed against the hardwood. He said as much, and began leading the succubus down to the parlor. As he descended the stairs, a clawed hand gripped his loosely tied hair, winding it round and round until it was pulled taut. Forced to stop at the first landing, his neck stretched back to the point of discomfort, Jas. suppressed the groan that threatened to escape.  
  
Heavy talons dragged across the carpeted stairs as the succubus stepped down, drawing close. Jas. felt it’s breath against his ear, as it pressed him to the wall. “You aren’t one for tea and pleasantries, are you, pretty?” It’s lips tickled the hair at the nape of his neck. “No tender words and gentle hands on a chaise. You like it rough. You like seeing pain, though you cannot abide it yourself. But deep down you wonder how it’d feel. I can taste those desires you try to hide away from yourself.”  
  
His nostrils flared as he clenched his jaw. With his face against the wall, he couldn’t say much, but knew not to give anything away the succubus could use. If it was going to attempt to delve into his thoughts, it’d have to work for it. Enough left at the surface of his mind might keep it occupied until it had it's fill, and prevent it from digging deeper.  
  
He felt it’s cock pressed to the back of his trousers, and his own arousal began to stir with the tightening grip in his hair. It’s hands found the front of his britches, squeezing his shaft through the fabric before unfastened them. “Shall I fuck you here with naught but spit?” It hummed against his skin.  
  
His trousers were pushed down to his ankles, hobbling him. Yethrichoiz spat on it’s hand, then speared him so suddenly that it stole his breath. Jas. couldn’t stop the shuddered gasp of shock and pain. He nearly came in that moment, but fought to regain control over his composure. His eyes found a water stain spreading from the nearby window. Jas. focused on it, the dark outline causing the wallpaper to curl at the edges.  
  
“This is all you’ve wanted, isn’t it?” It purred as it thrust it’s cock into him. “A body that would please mother and father, but you didn’t get that did you? Oh no.” It leaned forward, and ran it’s tongue along the outer shell of his ear. “All you got was father’s looks, and pointy ears.”  
  
Jas. clenched his jaw and kept his face neutral. He wouldn’t give the succubus the satisfaction of getting under his skin.  
  
“I wonder what you would look like, had your father not chose for you. Would you still look like the idealized image of himself? Mm, I think you would. Because deep down, don’t all daughters long to fuck their fathers; and what better way to chase that thought away than to become him?” It’s claws tugged at his hair, clenching and tightening.  
  
Glad for the wall hiding his face, Jas. grimaced at the reminder of the body he’d been born into. Once the bargain was fulfilled, he couldn’t be held accountable for how the succubus returned to the Abyss. As it fucked him, each stroke smoother as it’s precum eased passage, Jas. sank further into his mind. He ran through the spells he knew on hand, a task so mundane he doubted it wouldn't alert Yethrichoiz to his motives.    
  
“But that’s not all that you’ve hidden away in that brain of yours. How you used to touch yourself in the walls, watching the maid with mother’s hunting dog. Oh you were so ashamed afterwards, but you kept coming back, didn’t you?”  
  
The memory came close to the surface, and he felt shame begin to curl in his guts. Jas. swallowed back the revulsion, but felt his cock respond. “I did.” His knees felt weak as it whispered against his ear the details of his voyeuristic fantasies. Yethrichoiz grinned. He saw it’s sharp teeth flash out of the corner of his eye as he came with a “yes”.  
  
It’s cock pulled free, and it forced him to turn and face it. “Your mind is such a delicious source of perverse delights… Graz’zt will have you back, you know.” It said, nuzzling into his sweat damp skin. “He can give you this body, my lovely. He can give you the power to take whatever you desire; even potency.”  
  
Potency. Something that transmuter had lied to satisfy his father for the sake of their own greed. He’d never carry on the family name by natural means. In his self absorbed ignorance, that was the only favor his father had ever done for him. Jas. had no desire to strengthen his decrepit bloodline. That was all his parents wanted from him: Pass on the old fiend blood in the hopes of a legitimate male heir.  
  
It kissed him then, and Jas. felt a deep weariness settle into his limbs. It spread from his fingers and toes. The creature was distracted as it gorged itself on his life. It’s claws released their iron grip, and came to rest as gently as a lover on the back of his neck. For a moment he nearly gave into the desire, the false promise of intimacy, for he craved touch such as this. His lips parted and he leaned into the draining embrace.  
  
It wrapped it’s tail around his legs, pulling him close. Jas. struggled to lift his leaden arms. His hands came to rest heavily on it’s shoulders. He needn’t verbal components as his fingers sluggishly traced the motions. In it’s gluttonous haze, the succubus took no notice of the patterns he drew on it’s skin.  
  
Jas. grunted as it’s claws bit into him. The spell had taken root and began spreading until Yethrichoiz choked against his lips. Blood gushed forth into his mouth as it wept from every orifice before the body ruptured like an overripe melon.  
  
Without the support of it’s sturdy body, Jas.’s knees gave way and he collapsed into the gore. The blood and flesh soon congealed into a shapeless, blackened sludge. It sizzled faintly, emitting an odorous smoke; though it didn’t burn his skin or damage the carpet.  
  
He glanced up the stairs to where his bedroom waited. He’d naught the energy to make the climb, nor to teleport, for his mouth could hardly form coherent words. Jas. simply slumped back against the wall amid the jellied remains of the succubus, and slept. 


	7. Suggestion

Blood was tough to get out of the grooves in his breastplate. Atz sat on the floor in his rented room, and scrubbed the decorative serpent scales embossed down the sides and back of the armor. He’d piled his hair in a loose knot at his crown to keep it out of his eyes. Here he needn’t worry about eyes seeing the non-decorative scales that spread across the back of his neck, and down his back.   
  
It was a shame the fight had been short, he thought. He’d barely lost any wind before dispatching the two assassins. From them he only learned that Kwayothé still sought his clutchmate for some sort of slight.   
  
Corvid was difficult to track, and his trail had gone cold in Waterdeep. Atz felt a sense of something like sadness. He at least wished to speak with his clutchmate, for they hadn’t seen one another since they were children. Since Corvid was Zhenthís, and he A'atzoamehndi. Quickly they’d been separated, for Corvid proved adept at learning new languages, and prying information with naught but well placed words. Atz was more at home with a glaive in his hand. Retaining information had, and still was not his strong suit. Only through the blessings of Dendar did he learn the Deep Speech.  
  
With only dried blood left in a few of the hard to scrub areas, he set the brush down and wiped his hands on the front of his trousers. The night was still young, and he still had pent up energy. After he’d penned a note on his progress with the Zhents on the enchanted parchment, and discovery of Kwayothé’s presence in the north, Atz prepared to go out.   
  
He let his hair down and reapplied some citrusy musk oil to mask the lingering traces of sweat and blood. A full bath would take too long, and he was just going to sweat more shortly. So why bother, he reasoned. Rebinding his breasts, he sought his best tunic.   
  
Istrid was still at the bar when he ventured downstairs. The dwarf hailed him with her mug, “where’re you headed, friend?”  
  
He shrugged, leaning against the bar to grab a handful of peppered cashews. “Might head over to the Sea Ward.”   
  
“Mmhm,” she hummed with a knowing smirk. “I’m not going to judge how you keep spending your coin. Just keep your nose clean, eh?”  
  
He winked, and said through a mouthful: “No promises.”   
  
  
The Sea Ward was one of his favorite districts in the city, second only to the South Ward. He’d spent a full day there during his first venture, simply admiring the beautiful homes, and clothing in store windows. His first job paid for a silk tunic, and buttery soft leather boots from one such store. He wore that tunic now. The rich indigo and golds flattered his skin and dark hair. The pale orange scarf draped around his neck and over his hair, to protect it from the biting autumn wind, contrasted the blue beautifully. To the Waterdavians, he was the portrait of a Calishite gentleman. Here, the green tint to his skin was never remarked upon, for it was impolite to do so.  
  
The Port and Quill required a steep door fee. However, Atz flashed a smile and thickened his accent. He laced his flattery with the tendrils of suggestion. He asked with honeyed words if the bouncer, a half-elf woman with impressive forearms, would be willing to take a few dragons less. Doing so would mean the tip would be far greater for the partner he chose. “I know this fee is for the betterment of the establishment, but you and I both know that it doesn’t put food in the bellies of anyone but the Madam and her family.”  
  
She waved him in after he placed five dragons in her palm, a quarter of standard fee. Atz thanked her graciously, and bowed with a flourish before heading into the dimly lit foyer.   
  
The halfling woman at the front desk greeted him with a friendly smile. He’d forgotten her name, but remembered she shared it with a local flower. “Welcome back, Goodsaer. Who would you like to spend your evening with?”  
  
A remark on her thick curly hair, and how her blouse, a recent purchase he discovered, was lovely worked to make her smile more sincere. Atz flashed a grin at the sight of her darkening cheeks. “I rather enjoyed my time with Yaromir. Is his schedule free tonight?”  
  
She turned in her seat and flipped through the ledger. “His client is due to leave in a quarter of an hour. If you don’t mind waiting in the parlor.”   
  
The flattery earned him a glass of sweet plum wine. “On the house,” the halfling said. Her short brown fingers brushed his as she handed him the fluted glass.   
  
He’d sipped it slowly, and flipped through an art book to pass the time. The subjects were all female identifying, but he could still appreciate the quality and beauty of their figures. He lingered on an image of an androgynous bugbear. Their beard was elaborately braided, and their hair was piled high in an updo adorned with flowers.   
  
Atz drained the last of the wine when the halfling came to escort him to the second floor. “If you require anything, just ask for Poppy.” She said before leaving him in front of the door.  
  
Atz had taken a liking to Yaromir immediately, for they proved an excellent source of information. The escort was a doppleganger, currently preferring the shape of an attractive half orc man. It was through them that Atz was able to see their clutchmate. Corvid had been in the city for three months. Long enough for catch the notice of Yaromir’s contacts within the Harpers.   
  
Corvid favored him greatly, though he had a slighter build and wider hips. It’d been strange seeing how different he looked from their time in the temple all those years ago. How haunted his eyes were. Atz had known about the time he spent in Kwayothé’s dungeons, and thanked the Night Serpent he’d survived the ordeal.   
  
Yaromir greeted him with a friendly smile and an embrace. “Glad to see you haven’t been stationed elsewhere.”  
  
“Not for another tenday. The company’s ordered me out to some backwater trade hub east of the Serpent Hills. Folks have been disappearing, and gnoll sign’s in the area.”  
  
Atz relaxed on the chaise, letting Yaromir finish their bath unhurried. Once they’d caught up, he inquired about any new intel on Corvid’s whereabouts.   
  
Yaromir rubbed some jasmine oil into his close cropped beard, and checked his tusks in the mirror. “Unfortunately we lost him after Secomber. Esu reported that he ventured south, towards the moors, and hasn’t returned.”  
  
“What’s in the moors?”  
  
“Goblinfolk mostly, but there’s word a black dragon’s settled in the area. Now,” he came to sit by Atz’s feet. “What would you like besides information and idle chitchat?”  
  
“Mm,” he grabbed Yaromir’s arm and tugged them forward to straddle his lap. “Depends. Would you prefer to give or receive?”  
  
The half-orc chuckled, “you’re paying me to decide, huh?”  
  
“I don’t feel like thinking tonight.”  
  
“Very well then. Get those trousers off and that scaly arse up.”  
  
He did as instructed, and removed the tunic as well. He draped the clothes over the back of Yaromir’s vanity chair. A quick glance in the mirror told him his eyeliner was starting to smudge from the oil on his eyelids. It aggravated him to no end that no matter what, the kohl ended up caused him to resemble a raccoon. If he didn’t require it to avoid being blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the sea, he’d toss the offending little stick. He quickly wiped at the dark smudges before unwrapping his breasts, and took a relieved breath.   
  
“I don’t understand why you insist on binding. You have lovely tits.” Yaromir said, watching him stretch and enjoy the freedom.  
  
Atz shrugged. “Makes me less memorable.” He patted one of them, “and a smaller target when they’re mashed up.”  
  
Yaromir snorted, “as if flattening your chest would make you any less memorable.”  
  
He returned to the half-orc, and situated himself in a comfortable position. Atz rested his chest against the back of the chaise as Yaromir slicked him from slit to ass with warm oil. Fingers briefly teased his folds and brushed the head of his cock, coaxing it to stiffness so it stood out from the thick black hair. As much as he’d enjoy a slow build up, time was as much of an issue as coin.    
  
Yaromir’s cock nudged against his slit, and slowly pushed into his cunt. Strong hands gripped his hips, pulling him back to meet his thrusts. Atz lost himself in the sensation; the sound of skin against skin, the wet slick of the cock in him. He let his forehead rest against his arms and closed his eyes. Every job, and concern was pushed from his mind; already made hazy by the wine.  
  
Suddenly the cock left him, and Atz felt an emptiness when Yaromir’s fingers spread him. His thick fingers hooked into his cunt, then dragged his wetness up to his hole. He lightly encircled the rim, and Atz groaned, digging his fingers into the velvet in anticipation. Soon he was rewarded by those two fingers sliding into him.  
  
Soon after, the half-orc’s cock entered alongside the two fingers in a delicious stretch. Atz couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through him. “Hold yourself open for me,” Yaromir said, directing Atz’s left hand to replace his fingers.   
  
Yaromir wasn’t gentle, and knew he needn’t be, for Atz preferred a firmer hand. The half-orc knew what strings to pluck to get him to sing. Typically subdued, even in private, he couldn’t help the moans who’s pitch heightened. Even with his cock left untouched, the yuan-ti came forcefully; enough that it jellied his legs, and required Yaromir to hold him aloft by the hips.   
  
By the rule of the house, Yaromir pulled out. His cum spattered over the muddy scales across Atz’s lower back. He lowered the yuan-ti back down, letting him catch his breath. “Have I emptied that brain of your’s yet?”  
  
“Thoroughly, and with expertise.” Atz smiled over his shoulder.   
  
“Good. I’ve time blocked off for another two hours, if you need to rest.”  
  
“A wash and some vittles would be lovely.”  
  
“I’ll request a charcuterie board and some wine be brought up. I’m sure you can find the toilet.”  
  
“Mmhm,” Atz hummed. “And I hope we have some time for a palate cleanser.” He said, giving Yaromir’s spent cock a light squeeze.   
  
“That’ll be extra, for that cunt of your’s makes my tongue numb.”  
  
“Fair enough. I’ll leave the coin on the table.”


	8. Infernal Constitution

“ _Fuck your Lord’s honor. He was a fool, and there’s no honor in dying alongside a fool. You lost. It’s better you live than die alongside a stubborn bastard who won’t admit to defeat._  
  
“ _Honor is just an excuse to let innocent people die. You offer their families the pretty words that they died with it so they don’t think to speak out against you._ ”  
  
The words would not leave Poetry’s mind and left him conflicted. The yuan-ti had laughed at his guilt, and left him to absorb what he’d said. How many times had Poetry gone to inform partners and parents that their loved one had been killed? Had he lost count or simply quit trying to keep it?  
  
That night he sought Atz out once more. The yuan-ti was staying at the Missing Minotaur while waiting for work. It was a place for sellswords and thieves. At the edge of the walled city, waiting for the next job or mark to walk through the gate. Through the crowd he spotted his blue black hair and distinct green tinted skin at a table near the stairs. Atz made no effort to hide his scales or viper eyes, though it was the bright colored clothing he favored that drew the eye first.   
  
“I’d ask how you fare, friend, but you look terrible.” Atz said and indicated the empty seat beside him.   
  
Poetry sat and curled his tail across his lap to avoid having it trod on. At the yuan-ti’s insistence, he stayed for dinner. However, Atz only ordered weak wine and water. “Drinking to your sorrows only exacerbates them.” He’d said after stopping Poetry from requesting the ale after the fried fish arrived.   
  
It rankled him, and he made to leave. How dare this man speak for him and claim to know his mind. When he stood, Atz held both hands up, fingers glistening with grease. “My apologies, friend. I’m only speaking from experience, and thought to offer the wisdom it granted me.” He placed one hand over his heart, “I truly meant no offense.”  
  
He deflated a bit. Atz’s charming smile and handsome face did much to lessen the anger. However, he didn’t forget why he’d come to see the yuan-ti. He wanted his words to cease haunting him, and for that smile to be banished from his dreams. And it was that smile that led him to follow the yuan-ti upstairs after they paid their tab.   
  
He had not forgiven him for the unwanted advice, but was quick to reciprocate the kiss when the door closed behind them. The yuan-ti pushed the shoulder of his loosely fastened gambeson down and paused. “You are full of surprises,” he chuckled. Before Poetry could cover his breasts, Atz reached up and unbound what he’d originally thought to be an undershirt beneath the yuan-ti’s tunic. His weren’t as full as they used to be, he explained, “age and binding took it’s toll on these poor fellows.”  
  
Atz hooked two fingers into the waist of Poetry’s trousers, pulling him closer. He could see the yuan-ti’s pointed fangs beneath his curled mustache. Reaching between them, Poetry’s hand slipped between his legs. Atz’s trousers were made of a thin, but sturdy silk. His fingers easily found what they sought. For but a moment that confident, bold smile faltered as his lips parted. The gasp it drew from him was immensely satisfying.  
  
When they reached the small stiff mattressed bed, Atz’s trousers had a damp stain where his fingers had probed and teased. The yuan-ti kicked them off and let his knees fall to either side. His cock was only just visible in the thick black hair. Poetry stretched out between those legs, his fingers grazing the smooth scales that covered the outside of Atz’s thighs, as he gripped his hips. Poetry’s blue tongue teased his cock, and parted the hair to seek out his cunt. The acrid, translucent fluid made his tongue tingle slightly, and the tip numbed as he lavished attention on the yuan-ti’s folds.   
  
He felt Atz grip his horns as he chased his tongue. His tail slipped between his legs so the soft underside could rub his cock beneath his trousers. The tip found Atz’s opening and wormed its way inside until it reached the first fleshy spine.  
  
Poetry fought not to smirk when Atz came suddenly. It seemed to have caught him off guard, and his thighs shuddered beneath Poetry’s hands. “You’ve quiet the experience with that tail,” he said after taking a moment to catch his breath.   
  
Poetry hummed in agreement. He sat up to leave, but Atz beckoned him over. “Let no one say I never return a favor… but by the Night Serpent, why do you have on so many layers?”  
  
Atz unwrapped the sash and belt around his waist. Soon he was free of his trousers, and Atz tossed them to the floor with an exaggerated huff. His hands guided Poetry up his torso as he lay back, until he knelt over the yuan-ti’s face.  
  
His tongue was as quick to please as his words. Poetry soon had to grip the headboard to steady himself against the quivering of his legs. Long, calloused fingers probed at his slit until they were well coated. Leaving his cunt, Atz pressed two fingers into his hole, and Poetry arched back to meet them. They thrust in time with the bobbing of his head as he sucked Poetry’s short cock.  
  
With a shuddered gasp he came. The yuan-ti’s fingers, however, never slowed. His tongue still probed his throbbing cunt. Poetry’s taloned feet curled, and his tail wrapped itself around his thigh. “Please,” he gasped.   
  
He felt the yuan-ti’s chuckle against his folds, tickling the hair. His tail was tugged free, and Atz guided the tip to his cunt. “Fuck yourself for me, lovely.”   
  
The smug, talented bastard, Poetry thought with only flustered amusement. His hair was damp with sweat as he rocked his hips, meeting Atz’s hand and his own tail.

Sliding from beneath him, Atz held Poetry in his lap, with an arm around around his waist to hold him steady. He quickened the pace of his fingers once he added a third. The wet sound of the palm hitting his skin went straight to Poetry’s loins, and his tail slipped free of his cunt to rub against his cock. His claws tangled in Atz's hair and tugged until the yuan-ti's head was tilted back. He kissed him then, more forcefully than he'd intended, and winced when their teeth clacked together.

Atz was so confident, so perceptive. It'd taken but a glance for him to peg Poetry for who he was. The truth had strung, but he'd needed to hear it. It freed him from the guilt that was suffocating him at night, when he was left alone with naught but his thoughts and memories. For the first time since he'd fled from his dying brethren and Lord, he felt like himself again.  
  
When he came, he felt weak as the throbbing in time with his heart slowed. The air in the room was humid, and he desperately wished for an open window. Neither of them were keen on moving in that moment, however. Poetry, instead, rested against Atz’s sweat slick chest, being mindful of his horns. Beneath them the sheets were damp, and clung to their skin. If only his tail were a foot longer; he could reach the window without rising.  
  
“Is that something they teach you knights in training, or something you picked up on the road?”   
  
Poetry laughed, and then groaned as he stretched. “It wasn’t all court functions, and guard duty.”  
  
Atz wound a curl around his finger, then watched it spring back. After a moment he said: “The Black Company is sending me east. I could use the services of a dishonorable knight, and I’m certain there will be plenty of work, what with the recent gnoll uprising west of Thay. Plenty of defenseless people needing aid.”  
  
“I’m certain that’s not your only motivation for the invitation.”  
  
He shrugged, and then shifted so he could wrap an arm around Poetry’s shoulders. “I hate keeping watch, and having an extra pair of eyes would give me more time to sleep.”


	9. Chill Touch

They’d traveled together for a long stretch now. Atz was still incessantly chatty, but never rankled him. It surprised Poetry how little he knew about his travel companion, and occasional bed partner despite this. The yuan-ti could pick his brain apart with a glance and some well placed words to lead him to whatever answers he sought.   
  
Hopping from taverns and tenant housing, they followed job leads and conflict at the behest of the Black Company. The room they now shared at the Blackened Kettle was to stretch their funds, until a new job came along. The bed they shared was for company and to stave off the bitter cold that seeped through the cracks. Though the chill didn’t bother Poetry; he quite enjoyed it.   
  
Atz was below still. He heard his distinctive, raspy laughter through the floorboards. It always rose above a crowd, bubbling and cackling deep from his belly.   
  
For now, Poetry relished in the space, and stretched out across the mattress. He kicked off his trousers and dropped them to the floor with his talons. Spitting on his fingers, he then parted the hair between his legs, long due for a trim. The slick fingers teased his cock until it swelled and rose past the outer lips. Poetry curled his tail around his thigh and slid the tip into his cunt.   
  
Below people chatted and drank. They talked about who was fucking who; who got married; whether or not they thought the gnolls would target the outpost. Below Atz did what he did best: Read people. He could find a job lead in even the poorest villages. Someone always had a problem they needed solving, he’d said. His tongue was just as silver as his hair was starting to turn.  
  
Poetry imagined being down there with him, sitting at his side in a corner booth. While the yuan-ti consoled a grieving widow who’d lost his husband to the terror that haunted the town at night, his hand sought Poetry’s slit. While they negotiated a price for the monster’s head, Atz’s sly fingers rubbed the head of the tiefling’s cock through his trousers. His face never giving away anything but concern for the widow’s plight.   
  
He squeezed his breast and brushed a thumb over his nipple. Atz would settle on a fair and fat purse the moment he’d pull the orgasm from his loins. Poetry would be forced to stifle his reaction, to keep his face impassive, so as not to raise suspicion. He’d fight it and hide the shuddering breath in a pint of ale.  
  
Slick with clear fluid, Poetry’s tail positioned itself outside his hole. He let his knees fall to the sides and angled his hips up, before it entered to the first fleshy spine. Wanting to prolong the moment, he let up on his cock. Already the heat in his belly was curling tight, and he didn’t want it to end just yet.   
  
The lock clicked. Only two people in the Blackened Kettle had a key to this room, so Poetry didn’t stop. He watched it open to Atz’s ale flushed face, then quickly close behind him. The yuan-ti leaned against the door with that infuriatingly charming smile. While Poetry fucked himself with his tail, he took it in with a hungry eye.   
  
Finally he stepped forward, removing his fur lined cloak and heavy wool tunic. The cold was not kind to Atz, who found himself shivering despite the many layers. It was only beside Poetry, beneath quilts supplemented with an outstretched cloak did he find relief. Through the cloth wrapped around his chest, Poetry saw his nipples were stiff from the chill, and goose pimples were raised over his arms.   
  
Atz’s hands were freezing when they grazed his flank, and brushed the underside of his breast. His tongue, however, was hot when it sought out a nipple. Poetry drew him close, only asking him to stop long enough to grab the cloak he’d left on the floor. He pulled the fur and wool over them both, trapping them in darkness. Atz’s grayed outline dipped back down to lavish attention on his breasts, while those chilly fingers cruelly toyed with his cock.   
  
Knowing he wouldn’t last long beneath him, Poetry rolled them over, using Atz’s drunken unsteadiness to his advantage. He kissed the grin from his lips, and ground his hips against the yuan-ti’s dense hair in time with the thrusts of his tail. His legs parted further, and he groaned as their cocks made contact.   
  
Having two tails in moments like this would be beneficial, Poetry thought. However, hands and hips must do for now. Atz kept him firmly against his body, greedily absorbing the warmth between them. It left little room for a hand to slip below; but the rocking of their hips, and the slide of their cocks was an easy, slow building pleasure.   
  
The yuan-ti’s legs were a vice around his hips, keeping their bodies flush. With his head start, however, Poetry came early. His soft shuddered groan puffed across Atz’s mouth, which the yuan-ti drank greedily with a kiss.  
  
Freeing himself from his grasp, Poetry slid down his sweat slick torso. He pushed his lips apart and took his cock in his mouth. He pressed his tongue against the underside of it, splitting the inner lips and drawing Atz’s cock further into his mouth. Beneath him, the yuan-ti’s hips thrust in tandem with the bobbing of his head.   
  
Atz came with a rush, leaving Poetry sputtering and forced to clear his nose. Only twice had he managed to draw forth such an orgasm from Atz. It was typically the yuan-ti who was the cause of such explosive climaxes. Poetry’s face had burned the first night Atz had called downstairs for a change of bedding, unashamed of his nakedness, or the obvious wetness darkening the sheets. He’d made no effort to hide it from the chambermaid, while Poetry clutched at a cloak around his shoulders.  
  
It was in their favor that Atz had gotten most of it on Poetry’s face rather than the quilt. Despite washing his face, the tiefling’s vision was still blurred, and his eyes stung when he returned to bed. He’d warmed the hand cloth, and rooted back beneath the cloak where Atz remained. Laying beside him, Poetry wiped the sweat and spit from his skin and scales.   
  
Atz’s movements were sluggish with drink and cold. He thumbed a nipple, causing heat to coil in Poetry’s loins once more. Knowing Atz would likely fall asleep soon, he ignored it.   
  
It took some convincing to get him to leave the warmth of the cloak, but Poetry managed to get him beneath the quilt. As warm as the cloak was, it stank of days spent on the road and their mingled sweat. He rested his chin on the yuan-ti’s crown as he wound his limbs around the tiefling.   
  
With words sloshed together, Atz informed him of their next job: Guarding a homestead from bandits. The family owed money to the Wolf King, and reneged on their end of the deal. He hoped to meet this self proclaimed King. “I sense a grand adventure.” He mumbled against Poetry’s neck.


	10. Contact Other Plane

The last thing he remembered was how the salt water bit into his ruined flesh. How the light reflected on the water, and the black hull of The Mistress, his Mistress, growing smaller and smaller. He remembered the hatred that welled deep in his heart, and the desire to see his crew put through the same torment they’d inflicted upon him.  
  
Eksa was in and out. At first he wondered if he was still down there, and this was simply the last gasps of life. Then he heard voices, hushed and gentle: “Easy now, these bandages need changing.” Unless one of the nine hells had an infirmary, he was alive. Someone had fished him out of the water, and thought him worth saving.  
  
“Watch his mouth, sweetheart.”  
  
Not an infirmary then. Though he couldn’t be completely certain. Whatever they were giving him for pain left him floating in a sea of silk and cotton.  
  
“The fellow needs to get some water in him.”  
  
“But if he bites you-“  
  
His vision swam and his eyelids felt heavy. Above vague shapes moved over him, never close enough to make out more than a humanoid blob. They’d guide a cup to his lips sometimes filled with water, other times with a mild broth. It tasted of fish and salt. Large hands moved him, shifted his limbs around, and spread a soothing balm over the raw flesh over his right side. Who were these strangers, and why did they put forth so much effort? Was his face unrecognizable? He didn't recall whether the barnacles had reached his face. He didn't recall much but the clouds of his own blood when he was dropped into the water. How much time had passed since?  
  
Cold enveloped him, seeping deep into his flesh until it bit into his bones. When he opened his eyes he found a dark shape over him, different than the other two. This one felt strangely familiar. Both calming and frightening, like a lover who was a mean drunk. It slowly came into focus, the black tendrils solidifying into long black hair surrounding a pale and handsome face. Eyes black and cold as the depths regarded him, and lips parted to reveal sharp teeth. He spoke words that made no sound, but Eksa understood them.  
  
The room cracked and groaned with ice flows. He smelled the cold, like heavy gray clouds gathering overhead before a blizzard. It raised goose pimples over his skin, and his scales flared out, seeking any warmth to trap.  
  
His former crew would burn. They’d feel every agony of the barnacles dragging across his flesh. The sting of salt water that filled his lungs. The pain of the knife that cut away his ruined leg below the knee. The stick and tug of the remains of breast being stitched back together. He’d hunt every last one of the traitorous cowards down. He saw himself standing on an alien shore accompanied by strange beings with the heads of animals. He heard the wet cackling of gnolls, and smelled burning wood and flesh. New beginnings, new pawns a voice whispered.  
  
The figure smiled and bent down, kissing him. Sharp teeth grazed his parched lips, and cold hands gripped his wounded flank. He breathed hatred into Eksa’s belly, and desire into his loins. It felt as if every orifice was filled, and for a moment he feared suffocation. Icy tendrils plundered his mouth, his holes. Everything was tight, stretched, and the corners of his mouth ached until the cold leeched all feeling from his flesh.  
  
His vision narrowed until his world was nothing but that handsome face and dark eyes. Never had he been so thoroughly fucked. Pain and pleasure melded together in a way he'd never experienced. Chasity would be strung up as he’d been, he’d drag her across the hull until there was nothing left. He’d slowly pull Rath’s limbs from his body, so the traitorous quartermaster would feel the tearing of the stretched meat and ligaments. All of them who watched and did nothing, those who knew of the mutiny and said nothing; they'd all feel his wrath.  
  
Eksa groaned around the tendril in his mouth as he came. The face above blurred as darkness crept from his periphery, and the world faded to black with a smile.  
  
The heat of the hearth returned, and stung his cold limbs. Fingers and toes throbbed as blood sluggishly began circulating once more. Eksa hissed and writhed beneath the onslaught of sensation.  
  
“By the Lord, he’s freezing. Did you leave the window open?”  
  
“Not that I recall. Hurry, get some blankets and bring the tea.”


	11. Rite of the Storm

Through the haze of poppy milk, Atz felt something cool slide up his arm. It’s weight settled on his chest as a angular black head rose to stare down at him. Putrid, unblinking, yellow eyes; they were all that remained in focus. The rest of the serpent wavered in and out; it’s shape undulating and amorphous.   
  
The memory of the Duckwater slaughter resurfaced. Buildings burning in the night, and the mercenary army laying waste to all who dwelt there. It was at the behest of Baron Glynwinth, who sought to snatch the region for himself. Atz had been paid a hefty sum to fill out the ranks, and the Zhentarim wanted a Black Company presence on the front lines.   
  
The serpent pulled forth the screams and pleas of innocent villagers. It pulled his shouts to stand down, and the clang of his glaive as he defended a group trying to escape the horror. He relived the intense pain of a dagger through his left eye, and the fear that settled cold in his breast when the eldritch fire fizzed on his fingertips. He’d been forced to slice into his palm, drawing forth the magic within his blood. How it sizzled with electricity. How it filled his nose with the stench of burning flesh and ozone.  
  
 _Failure_.   
  
Dendar’s messenger forced him to relive every moment, every injury. Finally the pain ceased, as the last moment he remembered played out: Running through the Lurkwood, following the panicked survivors. He could barely stay upright, and stumbled. Trees buffeted him, and limbs cracked across his flesh, until he collapsed. Blood magic had drained him of energy, and he hadn’t the will to run any longer.   
  
The black serpent’s fang bit deep into his neck. For the first time in his life, Atz felt the sting and heat of venom through his veins. It set his blood ablaze, and he fought not to cry out.   
  
The next time he awoke, Atz felt empty. No words, no gestures; not even blood could pull forth a spell. Dendar had abandoned him. He was to be her herald of nightmares, a beacon of power representing his House and Her will. He had failed to save people he didn’t know. People who were not vrael. Atz had allowed emotion to control his actions.  
  
His first thought was to seek out Poetry. The tiefling had always been a great source of stability and comfort. Last he heard, Poetry’d taken some up with some dragon hunters based out of Calimport. However, he received orders to travel to Saltmarsh and seek out the Empty Net for work.

  
  
_Glynwinth wants your head for exposing him, and he’s turned his ire on the Black Company. The Zhentarim has your back. Lay low for a while, Atz. -K_

  
  
Atz leaned back in his chair and watched the sky lighten. He’d opened the window to let the chilly morning breeze in. Saltmarsh had been kind to him over the years. Despite the upheaval within the Zhentarim, he remained in contact with K. They kept him up to date with the infighting, and cautioned him about flashing his colors. The Black Network was not being painted favorably by the broadsheets, making life difficult for anyone marked with the flying serpent.  
  
Work was plentiful on the coast, and fishing was good. Though Atz still refused to set foot on a ship bound for salvaging missions. Beasts that lurked in the deeps terrified him. The thought of a shark appearing in the murky depths sent a chill down his spine. He knew there were worse, and that only solidified his stance that he didn’t belong in the sea.   
  
The large, hunched figure of Krag passed the window. The half-orc stopped when he hailed him. “Any new additions?” Atz asked, nodding towards the streaks of mud across his cloak.  
  
“Aye. Two. Guards found them on the western end of the fields with spears through their backs.”  
  
“Mm, I take it folks will be wanting some lizard skins, eh?”  
  
“Might. Keep your eyes peeled for postings.”  
  
Atz thanked him and offered a mug of coffee. Krag accepted, but remained at the window. He’d never taken Atz up on on having a seat. Grimacing as the bitter coffee hit his tongue, Krag coughed. His accent, with it’s heavy drawl was more pronounced. “Thick as tar, that. You Calishites like it strong, don’t’cha?”   
  
The yuan-ti chuckled, and extended the sugar bowl. “This will take some of the bite out of it.”  
  
After Krag left with a “good day to you, Atz,” he ran his thumb along the rim of the mug. He thought about the subtle smile beneath the half-orc’s mustache; the blunt tusks that clicked against the copper mug; the thickness of his hands and forearms when he raised his hand to wave. Atz had flirted with caution since he’d met the grave keeper. Since taking notice, he’d never seen the half-orc express interest in anyone.   
  
The only time he really opened up was on the subject of history. That had spurred Atz into purchasing some books. He was a slow reader, and found that history couldn’t hold his attention long. The words would begin to run after a few pages, and he’d chase them until frustration led to snapping it shut.   
  
Leaving the mugs in the wash basin, he stepped outside. His porch extended over the water. It was isolated, and he needn’t worry about eyes on him unless a skiff passed. The morning was still gray, and the sky heavy with clouds. He inhaled the thick air and smelled rain.   
  
As thunder rumbled in the distance, Atz sat on the sun, and salt bleached cushioned chair. The wood creaked as he settled in, and propped a scaled leg up on the railing.  
  
The storm rolled in slow. He watched the wall of rain travel east until it drummed against the tin roof above him. Poetry would like it here, he thought. Poetry would like Krag. The both of them had an appreciative eye for men built like a sturdy oak.  
  
Atz imagined the three of them on a morning like this. The rain making them reluctant to leave the bed, so they occupied themselves with other ventures. The yuan-ti would love to be at the center of it: Poetry before him, and Krag’s solid bulk at his back. The half-orc’s cock would fill him, while Poetry’s strong fingers teased his folds.   
  
He untied his robe and let the quilted fabric fall open. The cool air raised goose pimples over his skin, and stiffened his nipples. His cock had already began to swell at the fantasy that played out in his mind. His fingers dipped between his lips to tease out some wetness. Even when his breasts began to flatten, and lines started gathering at the corners of his eyes, his libido never degraded with age. His cock was as reliable as the tide.  
  
He’d thought to get up and fish the plug out from the wardrobe, but he was comfortable. His fingers stroked his cock in time with the fantasy of Poetry’s. He missed how clever that tiefling’s blue tongue was. How the fleshy spines on his tail felt, and the pointed tip slithering within. His toes curled as he came, and the hot fluid pooled beneath his hips.   
  
The wetness was quick to cool, and prompted him to get up. The back of the robe was damp, and he draped it over the back of the chair. Left out, it’d dry eventually whenever the sun made it’s appearance. He stretched, yawning wide, and desired nothing more than a warm bath.   
  
Often his mind wandered to what sort of bed partner Krag would be. Perhaps later he would revisit the scenario. 


	12. Evard's Black Tentacles

The Village of Barovia was the last place Poetry would’ve thought to find Skuggi. He’d noticed the bugbear wearing the face of a dead man around town, and cornered them in a booth. “I thought you’d retired.”  
  
The dead man finished the last of his bitter ale with a satisfied sigh, and set the pockmarked tankard down. He squinted at the Vistana man standing before him, then smiled as recognition dawned. “My crew decided one last adventure before we split, and how better than to go out than by hunting the old bat?”  
  
Wrapped in the din of conversations and clatter of dishes, they ate and shared a few drinks. Keeping his voice low, but not suspiciously so, Poetry caught them up with his own ventures traveling with the mercenary, Atz Mehndi. That’d surprised the bugbear, “the Zhent’s Black Company, eh?”  
  
Poetry nodded, “I’m afraid I don’t have any juicy secrets for you. I don’t even know if Atz was his true name.”  
  
“Mm, I don’t doubt that. I am surprised you managed to suss out who he worked for. But what brings you to this forsaken place?” The bugbear’s leg brushed against his, and he didn’t move away. Masked by an illusory boot, Poetry slid his taloned foot against their ankle.   
  
“Visiting home,” he answered truthfully, and caught the nearly imperceptive widening of their eyes.   
  
“Well, now I understand your love of the dawn. I haven’t seen the sun since I crossed the border. And the wolves… if only I could get a night’s sleep without hearing that gods be damned howling.”   
  
“Mm, there’s a sad beauty to it.” Skuggi snorted at that. “And it’s an effective means of keeping children in their beds at night.”  
  
“The undead weren’t enough?”  
  
The dead man invited Poetry up to their room after they settled the tab. It’d embarrassed him at how little he could tip, but his dislike of the Barovians and their treatment of the other meant he wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. He caught the barmaid’s sour look at the silver and copper pieces, and the muttered insult regarding the cheapness of the Vistani. Skuggi, however, left a tidy sum as the dead man had tipped well in life. It’d kept the gossip from reaching his wife, Skuggi’d explained as they walked up the tight stairwell. It wasn’t uncommon for him to spend the evening with company.   
  
The room was cramped and sparsely furnished. The sheets were clean though, and the mattress was free of parasites. The disguise melted from the bugbear’s form, absorbed into their own shadow. They made the room all the more smaller, as the top of their head brushed the ceiling beams.   
  
It’d been a lonely three tenday for them, as they couldn’t risk someone seeing past the disguises. Most Barovians couldn’t tell the difference between a bugbear and a lycanthrope; nor were they inclined to learn, they’d said with a tired smile.  
  
Poetry agreed. The talisman around his neck let him blend seamlessly with the Vistani. It reflected what he’d look like had he taken after his mother. However, a touch would shatter the illusion, as it merely lay over his devilish features. He took it off, and lay it on the vanity. In the mirror he caught Skuggi’s appraising glance. The bugbear had always been vocal about their opinion in regards to his looks.   
  
“That’s new,” they said, nodding to the diamond shaped scar on his forearm.   
  
“A claw caught me under the bracer.” And he told Skuggi of the hunt he’d been on after leaving the bugbear in Calimport. The copper dragon had been both a worthy, and infuriating foe to tackle. In the end it’s hide decorated the Prince’s throne room; the glittering patinated copper hung in a way to catch the morning light.   
  
Skuggi unlaced their tunic, revealing an ugly keloid scar along their side, that stood out amongst the dark fur. “Aboleth blood’s acidic, as I found out. Flora wasn’t as lucky. She got it right across the face.”  
Poetry hissed, “Is she alright?”  
  
“More or less. She got an enchanted glass eye to replace the one she lost. The scars are easy enough to hide with a minor illusion.”  
  
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was lumpy, but it felt luxurious in comparison to the bedroll beneath the wagon where he’d been sleeping.   
  
They chatted idly while Skuggi undressed. They told him how difficult it’d been wearing the dead man’s face. “I dread knowing those children will eventually lose their father a second time.” They sighed, and sat beside him. The bed frame groaned beneath their weight, and creaked as they leaned back onto their elbows. “They were so happy to see him back home.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Poetry caught the glint of silver where he knew the nipple rings were hidden beneath the fur. They matched his own.   
  
“It was a shame you departed as quick as you did. I’d planned on treating you to breakfast after working up an appetite.”  
  
Poetry felt himself blush. He’d snuck out of the narrow window in the water closet. The prospect of a loving embrace, and that sleepy eyed smile had terrified him for reasons he couldn’t comprehend. It was an irrational fear, he knew.   
  
That first encounter had him feeling the effects for a few days afterward. His cock and inner lips had been sore from all the attention Skuggi’d lavished on him. The bugbear had bound him to a chair with black, shadowy tentacles that’d sprung from the floorboards.   
  
He could still vividly remember how they probed every opening, filling his holes and mouth; wrapping around his breasts and limbs. He hadn’t been able to move, nor did he want to. The tentacles were cool against his damp skin, and opened him up like no cock ever could.   
  
Skuggi had positioned the chair before the vanity mirror so Poetry could watch himself; so he could see Skuggi reclined across the bed, idly stroking their cock as they directed the tentacles. He remembered how his reflection looked, how blue his tongue was against the bottom of a tentacle that thrust into his mouth. His belly had bulged, and he’d nearly came at the sight of the movement beneath his skin.   
  
When he did come, the tentacles held him aloft and let him see the state they’d left him in. Afterwards, Skuggi dismissed them. Melting into the shadows cast by the candle light, the tentacles left Poetry weak limbed and loose on the chair.  
  
The memory made his cock stiffen. “How about I make up for that, then?”  
  
Rather than let Skuggi take charge, for he wasn’t in the mood to be contorted or subjected to magic, Poetry straddled the bugbear’s lap. His trousers had been tossed to the cobweb infested, dusty corner. The bugbear’s large, clawed hands pushed his tunic up over his breasts. Fingers calloused from lyre strings brushed over his nipples.  
  
Foreplay was never his strong suit. Atz certainly enjoyed taking his time, but Poetry was used to a quick fuck between patrol or watch shifts. Fast and rough in a dark corner, or among the cover of trees. His time with the yuan-ti taught him to savor the moment rather than get it over with with. Poetry, wanting to savor this, rocked his hips, sliding his short cock and folds over Skuggi’s length. Just enough contact to tease them both.   
  
Skuggi wrapped one arm around his waist and pulled him forward. The pointed tip of his cock, and the broad head of Skuggi’s barely touched, grazing each other as the bugbear took one of his nipples into their mouth. Their short tusks pressed into his flesh. Poetry let out an audible gasp when the bugbear’s tongue hooked through the ring and tugged lightly.   
  
His fingers wound tight through Skuggi’s mane, as his tail stroked his folds. Slick with his own wetness, it then slithered between the bugbear’s thighs. Skuggi’s teeth enclosed over his nipple when his tail pressed into them.  
  
With a hiss, and a “that’s enough of that”, he pushed the bugbear down. Poetry leaned back, impaling himself on their thick cock. It pushed in easily, and he paused only to sink down over the bulbous base. His fingers brushed over his cunt, and he slid a finger into himself. There was little room for much more as the bugbear’s cock stretched him.   
  
Beneath him Skuggi’s calm facade cracked a hair, and Poetry felt a fluttering of excitement in his chest. The bugbear’s hips thrust upwards impatiently, and he responded with a tightening of his legs. His furred thighs kept Skuggi’s movements limited to mere squirming. He shook his head with a smile, and a low “not yet”. Relishing in the control over the large bugbear, his hand came to rest on their chest, and his blunt claws vanished into the dark fur. Poetry lifted his hips, enjoying the way the base popped out of him. Pulling out until the blunt head rested against his open hole, Poetry let the moment linger for a moment before he sat back again. The movement had it’d intended effect as Skuggi bowed beneath him. Their claws dug into Poetry’s hips, not breaking the skin, but would certainly leave behind dark bruises.   
  
He rode Skuggi hard, his tail thrusting in time with his hips. Sweat dripped down his sides, gathered beneath his breasts, and made the back of his knees slick. His hair clung to his skin like the cobwebs in stretched between the ceiling beams. Only when his thighs began to quiver did he allow Skuggi to meet his thrusts. The force of those strong hips, and the dull sound of their flesh meeting was enough to drive them both over.   
  
Skuggi broke first, and Poetry groaned as that broad head within him flared. He quickened his pace, focusing on the pop of the base and the fullness of that head until his body shuddered. Wetness oozed from his cunt, stretching between his fingers as his cock throbbed. Breathing hard, he rested against the bugbear’s damp fur, feeling the head press against his hole, locked in place for now. There was pressure there, but not uncomfortably so.   
   
Sometime later, Skuggi had softened enough to slide free. He felt their fingers stroke his loose hole, and his cock stirred slightly. “Stop smearing cum over my tail,” he grumbled, though it lacked any bite.   
  
He swatted the bugbear’s hand away, and reluctantly sat up. If he’d’ve laid there any longer sleep would’ve taken him. Poetry reached his arms high as he stretched, and shivered when Skuggi ran their hands along his sides. He longed for a cool cloth, and got up on weak kneed legs to go to the water closet.  
  
“There’s no window,” Skuggi warned with a tired smile.  
  
Poetry chuckled, “shame.”  
  
It was only after he closed the door did that pit drop in his gut. He enjoyed the bugbear’s company, thoroughly, considering the cum that was oozing down his inner thigh. The urge to run away started as a treacherous little thought at the back of his mind. As he wiped the thick fur over his thighs, it congealed into a panicked need. He needed to leave. He couldn’t face Skuggi, he didn’t want to see the disappointment, but there were no windows.   
  
He fought to keep the trembling in his hands down as he emerged, with his hair piled high to cool his neck. “Shall I call for some food to be brought up? I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”   
  
Skuggi lifted a heavy brow. _They know, they know, they know_ , Poetry thought, as heat rose to his cheeks and burned his ears. “See if they still have some more of those little cheese doughnuts left, with some briar berries and cream.”  
  
There was a sadness there that made that pit in Poetry’s stomach twist into a knot. Still, he gathered his clothing and dressed. As the door clothed behind him, he let out a shaky breath, and rushed down the stairs as quietly as he could. The talisman hid the rumpled state of his clothing, and the cobwebs that clung to one side of his trousers. It didn’t hide the shame on his face, however. He knew there were eyes on him as he passed through the bar. Yes, go on back to your camp, and away from polite society, those eyes said.  
  
Once he was out in the open air and past the village’s gate, Poetry felt he could breathe again. As much as he longed to look back, he feared that would compel him to return. So he pulled his coat tight around himself as he journeyed back to the camp. The wolves would leave him be. They always had. 


End file.
